Page 101 of The One Who Never Left: Colter

“Well, hell,” Boone said. “My play-it-fast-and-loose brother finally gets taken for a spin. And she’s the one tossing his ass to the curb?”

Colter scowled. “She didn’t toss me.”

“Right. She just downgraded you to a commemorative event. Like the fair. It rolls into town once a year, lights up the sky, makes everyone feel something, and by Monday it's tire tracks and an empty field.”

Colter taped harder than necessary. “Jesus, Boone.”

“I mean, I spent your twenties trying to explain that women have feelings, and maybe don’t like being treated like the romantic equivalent of a gas station sandwich⁠—”

“I never⁠—”

Boone held up a hand. “—and now look. Karma showed up with a clipboard, a box of Ultra-Plus tampons, and one hell of a cute kid.”

Colter’s eyes drifted across the room to Sutton—surrounded by volunteers, giving instructions, flipping pages on her clipboard, not looking at him. He felt that punch of wanting and she, apparently, wanted to stop being so damn aware of every time it happened.

Boone followed his gaze and sighed. “You look like a Labradoodle that saw its owner drive away. You okay?”

“No.” Colter cleared his throat. “Yes. Hell, I don’t know.”

Boone nudged him with an elbow. “Look. She’s been through real shit. You know that. She’s not the type to gamble her kid’s stability on some horny cowboy with a savior complex.”

“I don’t have a savior complex.”

“Your job is literally to collect strays and save lives.”

“Okay, maybe I am,” Colter conceded.

“You want her.”

“Fuck yeah, I do.”

“You want the kid, too.”

Colter didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.

Boone clapped his shoulder. “Then stop sulking about the one-night-stand label and prove otherwise. Show up, be consistent, and try not to scare her.”

“Great pep talk.”

“You’re welcome. I’m basically Dr. Phil with better bone structure.”

“Please don’t ever say that again.”

Boone laughed and stepped back. “I mean it. Don’t be an idiot. And don’t make her regret trusting you with her body or her kid.”

“I won’t.”

Boone nodded once—approval disguised as indifference. “Good. Now finish that damn banner before Maribelle decides to bury us under her entitlement.”

Colter pressed the last edge of tape onto the cinderblock wall and stepped back. The banner hung mostly straight—good enough that Maribelle might spare him execution. He’d barely had a second to breathe when he heard the familiar throat-clear of an oncoming lecture.

Dr. Porter—veterinarian emeritus, retired in title but not in spirit—stood beside him, with his brows bunched and his lips flattened into a line that usually preceded a ten-minute sermon on professional malpractice.

“Callahan,” Porter began, voice low and blistering. “Tell me you did not sign off on this.”

And here we go.

“Afternoon to you too, Doc.”